


What you see is what you get

by Anloquen



Series: Destiel Case!Fics [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fake Marriage, Family, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5202713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anloquen/pseuds/Anloquen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Sam and Cas ignore danger during a hunt and find themselves on the receiving end of a curse cast by a creature they have never encountered before. They have to act quick to save their lives. Hovewer, the curse has a different effect on each of them. In order to free themselves, they will have to admit and accept certain truths none of them want to reveal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"That one was easy," Dean stated merrily, folding his jacket and tossing his fake CDC badge to the metal box with all the other fake badges, "could be cooler, though. I'm not surprised the poor dude boiled alive."

Sam did not seem to be affected by the withering weather; he squinted at the file of printouts in front of him.

"Yeah, I guess we were lucky this time. People get wonderfully cooperative when they suspect a contagious disease. Or perhaps it is a disease."

Dean frowned dubiously.

"Hey, the doctors, I mean real doctors, not sexy doctors like us, would know something, right?"

Sam just gave him his usual mild bitchface.

"Hey, you're the geek, you tell me. How hard is it to notice a virus or something?" the older Winchester pressed.

"A virus? I don't know. It takes a dozen hours or so, with the DNA isolation, PCR and so on... The same with bacteria. Detecting a microscopic parasite could take more if its an unknown species..."

For a moment Dean looked like he wished he hadn't asked. He slumped onto the car seat and immediately jumped out.

"Jesus, like an oven..." he muttered.

"I told you to park in shade. Now we'll have to leave the door open and wait."

The older Winchester gave out a groan of disappointment.

"And the widow is waiting..." he sighed.

"Dude, that' sick."

Dean's face assumed an expression of injured innocence.

"C'mon, you know I wouldn't. You know me!" he tried to defend himself.

"Exactly. I know you."

xXx

Dean really didn't. The widow was indeed 27 and of eastern origin, but there was nothing of a busty Asian beauty in her. She was short and skinny, and she was a role model of tranquility and modesty. Her voice was low and flat (well, her voice wasn't the only thing about her that Dean found too flat) when she explained what had happened to her husband:

"He got back from a trade delegation on Sunday afternoon. At first he seemed normal. He just had this terrible headache, but we thought it was a sunstroke. He drove for a long time and there was this heat wave.." she made an odd, choking sound and reached for her tea; her hand was trembling so much that when she was putting the cup back, it rattled against the plate, "but on Monday afternoon... It was strange," she trailed off.

Sam grunted. Obviously it was him who had to lead the questioning; his brother was still a bit sullen about the lack of a real-life busty Asian beauty.

"Please, ma'am. We understand that the situation is difficult, but we need all the information you can provide. No detail is too small."

The woman clapped her hands on her lap; except for inclining her head slightly she was straightened up and almost immobile; her knees pressed together, her breath silent and even, her hair tied in a neat bun, a beige cardigan hanging loosely from her skinny shoulders. She looked like a doll.

"It was this woman he kept talking about... At first he mentioned her once or twice... But on Tuesday it was worse. He called in sick; he still had this terrible, terrible headache. Tuesday evening he was like in trance, like he was crazy. He kept saying that she was beautiful. That he had to join her. And the headache was getting worse. He had fever. We went to hospital and..."

The Winchesters exchanged a knowing look. Witches were a nasty business, but at least they were getting somewhere.

"So, uhm, mrs. Vine," Sam surreptitiously wiped sweat from his forehead. AC in this house was obviously not efficient enough to cope with the pestilent heat, "do you believe your husband was having an affair and that his mistress might have... Hurt him?"

"No!" the woman moaned querulously, suddenly looking straight into Sam's eyes. "Forgive me, mr Ward, mr Butler, I forgot myself," she bowed again.

Dean nodded, trying to look compassionate.

"Please, ma'am...Why do you find this idea unlikely? I am sorry to say that, but many happily married men have their secr..."

He clammed up, having noticed tears filling mrs. Vine's eyes.

"Please, misters, I really want to help David..." she whimpered, "I really want to help, but..."

The younger Winchester was sure that the heat was not the only factor making him sweat. The glance he exchanged with Dean was more worried than knowing this time.

"Mrs. Vine, please tell us everything you know."

"Miss, if you are withholding any information crucial to maintaining public safety and health..." Dean horned in with this professional-threatening, growling edge in his voice that was his trademark. Mrs Vine curled up with a moan and full-on burst into tears. Sam threw his brother a glare that was answered by a somewhat apologetic shrug.

"I'll tell you." the woman wailed from somewhere above her knees, where she was still hiding her face in her palms, "but please don't tell anyone from the government."

Dean sent his brother a triumphant smirk.

"Of course there was someone," mrs Vine wiped her eyes with an impossibly white cotton handkerchief, still sniveling, "But it could not be a woman. Never. You see, misters... David was a homosexual. After I came to America we met and we really liked each other. He was so good for me. He treated me like a sister. Then I had this trouble... But it was not a really bad fake marriage" she assured fervently "We loved each other very much. Like a brother and a sister. This is why I was surprised when he kept speaking about a woman. It is impossible. It was something evil..." she chirped a Chinese word none of the brothers knew, then frowned looking for an English equivalent "A demon."

xXx

"A witch. A demon. A virus. Awesome." Dean flung himself onto cold sheets, relishing in the cool breeze provided by air conditioning, "Four vics, three hypotheses and no beers in the fridge. I hate my life."

He gave his brother a dubious once-over as Sam was getting down to work. How could he even find the strength to unpack and switch on his laptop when all Dean managed to do was tossing off the sweat-soaked shirt and reeling a mantra of profanities in his mind?

"Dude, seriously?"

The younger Winchester just waved him off, fully focused on the screen.

After a couple of minutes he let out a haughty "hmm". At least Dean thought it was haughty, because he couldn't stand the idea that his little brother had more stamina than him and automatically started hating Sammy for it. Just a little bit.

"What?"

"Well, posing as CDC paid off. We know their every move. I've checked the GPS record and testimonies and collated their whereabouts from the week before their deaths. It seems that all victims drove through the same section of a road three days before their deaths. 72 hours, precisely."

"Huh... That's something."

Sam frowned and nibbled on his knuckle, staring intently at the screen.

"Dean, I don't know. What if it really is a disease? The way they died... It doesn't look like a curse. They died of high fever. Witches don't kill with fever. Neither do demons. Nothing we know kills with fever. We might shoot into something really nasty that totally isn't our kettle of fish."

"No way," Dean sat up, "now that we finally know something you wanna crap out? It's no virus. No way a virus would cause dudes to drop dead precisely 72 hours after infection. And why would they all kick the bucket around noon?"

The younger Winchester jolted to full alertness having heard these words.

"Dean, you're a genius..." he muttered, typing something frantically and before Dean could come up with a witty comeback, Sam sat back and crossed his hands behind his head with an exclamation of triumph.

"Noon. They died exactly at noon. Solar noon."


	2. Chapter 2

"No, Dean, I'm telling you it's a terrible idea..." Sam tried to bring up the topic for the fourth time that morning. He helplessly watched Dean dress up in his summery jeans - summery because they had a lighter shade of denim and more holes - and a white T-shirt, "By the way, we're not going, but if we were, you'd boil in these rags."

"I'd rather boil my ass off than look like a garden gnome. C'mon, slip into your lederhosen or bikini or whatever and let's hit the road."

"You could at least take a sleeveless shirt..."

"And parade with the shit Cas gave me in plain sight? No way. It's the lamest scar ever."

"All right. It does look kinda morbid. Anyway, we're not going," Sam tried to sound decisive, sipping his ice-cold sugar-free lemonade with aloe vera extract. He kinda hoped that the sound of ice cubes clinking against the glass will make Dean less enthusiastic about spending the whole day driving.

In a black car.

With no AC.

Through a fucking desert.

"Sam, you've spent the whole night googling and on the wire with Bobby. Remind me how many leads you have so far," the older brother challenged, cocking his head. "If my memory serves me right, the number begins with Z. Zeven? Zirteen? Zillion?"

"Zero..." Sam sighed.

"Exactly," his brother clapped his thighs "Your wonky methods are crap. We must pay this sucker a visit."

"Right. Something killed four guys, we have no idea what this is and we're gonna fling ourselves head first into the den of some nasty bitch because it's a cool idea for a family road trip. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Nothing" Dean grinned "Smitey McSmiter is going with us. After this last makeover he's pretty buff."

The younger brother tried not to look horrified by the fact that his own brother referred to a violent death and resurrection as  _makeover_. Instead, he rose his eyebrows and curled his lips meaningfully.

"Ow. That's why you want to look pretty?"

He grabbed the glass so that it wouldn't be knocked down by the pillow Dean threw at him.

"Geez, man...Are you at least sure he'll come?"

The older brother shrugged.

"He said he'd meet us there at eleven. It's like ten minutes to solar noon."

"You've already spoken to him?"

Dean's brow furrowed.

"Alone?" Sam insisted.

Dean's brow furrowed more.

"We're big boys, Sammy. We don't exactly need a chaperone..." he rolled his eyes, "he drops by from time to time. Yeah. Last time we went bowling when you were doing that vegan-lifestyle-coaching girl or whatever," the older Winchester boasted, knowing that the idea of bowling or getting drunk with an angel of the Lord was still giving his religious brothers the creeps, "I don't have these hots for angels, you know? He's a brick. We're besties."

"He's a fucking Seraph..."

Seeing Sam's bitchface become more and more bitchy every second his brother just rolled his eyes and patted Sam's shoulder.

"C'mon, Sasquatch. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can slobber over his feathery holiness."

xXx

Thanks to the detailed data obtained from the police and victims' families they were able to locate the place where all victims made for a short stopover 72 hours before they died. It was an unkempt rest area next to a neglected road.

There heat was almost tangible. It washed upon them like a stream of lava spewing into the car as soon as they stopped and opened the door. Sizzling spikes of hot air wafting above the melting asphalt were stinging their skin. Sam ended up kicking his heels, unable to stand in one place for longer in his sandals and Dean felt streams of sweat trickling down his thighs.

"Ya sure it's here?" Dean took a look around, tugging his thumbs into his belt. There was nothing around except for endless fields of rye and barley that glinted in the merciless glare like molten amber.

"Yes, it's the place. I can sense something sinister here," Cas's rough voice resounded and before Dean could express his outrage at the fact that the angel had appeared so close to him  _again_  and behind his back  _again_ , he felt a slight pressure of cool fingers on the back of his neck.

"The hell, man?" he barked, twisting around. The sight of layers of synthetic fabric cocooning the angel's body was making him physically sick.

"I'm sorry, Dean. You were starting to develop a heat stroke. I healed you, but if you don't change your clothes I will have to heal you again in a couple of minutes."

"See, Dean?" Sam boasted, trying to hide the fact that he had to tiptoe around to avoid the searing heat emanating from the tarmac.

"Shut your face, bitch!"

"Jerk..."

The Winchester had no time to start fighting, because they were both silenced by a taut hiss. Castiel was staring intently somewhere ahead. The boys followed his gaze and saw something...

...at first it looked like a swirl of dust that sailed slowly among the flaxen fields. There was a soft, soothing sound when the dry spikes rattled and swayed in the wind. Gradually the swirl was becoming whiter and more physical, slowly taking the shape of a slender, nubile woman.

All three men were mesmerized by the view. Each of them had an impression that her alluring, beautiful eyes were looking only at him; that this eerie, melodious whisper was meant only him, that this slender, tanned hands beckoned only him. They stood there, not daring to breathe or blink, possessed by wistful enchantment.

The sun sailed through the clear sky, slowly passing the zenith.

The woman stilled and bowed her head. She turned away, but before she left he sent each of the man a sorrowful, pleading glance.

They all sighed with woe when she vanished into thin air.

Dean was the first to shake off.

"The hell was that?"

"I'm not entirely sure..." Castiel answered, still a bit overwhelmed.

Sam's gaze was still hazy. The older Winchester had to slap his brother to make him come to his senses. As soon as the hunter came to, he started pouncing around and hissing in pain, trying to soothe his burnt feet.

"So... A bitch showed up, vanished and... Now what?" Dean opened his arms helplessly. Sam and Cas exchanged a worried glance.

"I'm afraid that there is a possibility that we all have 72 hours to live," the angel stated woodenly.


	3. Chapter 3

"Great!" the younger Winchester threw his hands above his head, "Wonderful idea, Dean. Let's melt our asses and get ourselves cursed because you can't live a day without doing something stupid."

"It's the tenth time I've heard it in two hours," Dean snarled with a cold edge in his voice. He was perfectly aware that it was his fault. Maybe a tiny bit Castiel's fault too. Anyway, even his hot temper didn't hinder an incredibly complex thought process that led to a conclusion that blame shifting would do no good.

"Technically, we weren't cursed," the angel explained, tracing the scorched, bleak landscape outside the motel's window with a broody look, "we were seduced."

"So you do know what kind of a fucker it was?"

"It would be extraordinary, but I believe it might have been a poludnitsa."

"A what?" both Winchesters exclaimed in unison. Dean remained seated on his bed, while Sam immediately grabbed his laptop and placed it on the table.

"Poludnitsa... Or Pshipolnitsa, or simply Lady Midday..." he read, muttering when his look skimmed over the parts he found unimportant, "spirit of a young woman... Died on the day of her wedding... Lives on fields... kidnaps newborns, causes headaches, drives people to madness... Worshiped by farmers, appeased by offerings and rites... The fuck? So is she a vengeful spirit or a monster or a pagan goddess?"

"Perhaps all three. These Slavic deities are really bizarre..." Castiel pursed his lips and jiggled his head with outright disdain.

"He's right," Sam confirmed briskly after a few minutes of browsing the web, "It looks like slavic people made turning vengeful spirits into gods their trademark. Topielets', Samodivas, Mamunas, Navkas, Vodniks. Spirits of floaters, dead virgins, women dead in childbirth, stillborns, oh, floaters again... All powered up and made into deities with rites and offerings. Why the fuck would they worship them?"

Dean downed the remaining half of his beer in one swig; his mouth was dry and his head hurt. Of course he wouldn't admit it, but there was this paranoid thought that the symptoms of dying were already kicking in. The vision of his body slowly boiling on its own accord didn't fill him with delight.

"And if she's from Europe, what the hell is she doing here?" Sam looked at Castiel expectantly. The angel took one slightly deeper breath.

Which meant that he was on the verge of bursting out in frustration.

"I suggested what this creature might be. I'm not omniscient," he noticed Dean's puzzled look, "It means I don't know everything about everything," he clarified earnestly.

"Yeah, it sticks out a mile," the older Winchester talked back, then opened the minibar with his foot without moving from where he was sitting. He examined its contents with appreciation. If he was about to suffer a horrible and painful death, at least he wasn't going to suffer it sober.

"Let's go through the vics. Usually the people targeted by a monster are the key," Sam ordained form behind his laptop. His older brother mumbled something inarticulate, mocking the younger's serious expression.

The computer expert focused on the screen again and started typing deftly.

"Four so far..." he muttered to himself.

"Seven!" Dean insisted, staring at the floor with a dismal expression. He took a big swig of tequila without taking his eyes off the crack in the tile in front of him.

"All right, seven. All male. 25 to 40 except for Cas... By the way, Cas, how old are you?"

"Four hundred million years."

The eldest Winchester took another gulp, but this time he choked on it.

"Erm," Sam gave Cas a somewhat fretful glance "Is it... much?"

"Not really. In fact I am quite young for an angel," With his steady gaze still resting on Sam the angel skimmed Dean's temple in passing; the burning sensation of  _actually breathing fire_  in the man's throat wore off in no time.

"All right. Male, relatively young, various ethnicities..."

"Various species..." Dean added with a pout.

"Dean, how could I have expected that it would be a slavic deity that had been forgotten for centuries?"

"Dunno, perhaps thanks to four hundred million years of experience?!"

"Not helping!" Sam rose his voice. Two other men calmed down - Castiel patient and stoic, Dean sulky and exasperated.

After a minute or so of frowning, sighing, muttering and rubbing his temples the younger hunter concluded:

"Nothing in common except for one thing. Two were married, four single, one divorced. From what we know one of this married guys was gay and had a fake marriage... And the other had a divorce pending."

"Does it mean that they all had an unsatisfactory love life?" The angel asked, a bit inhibited.

"Hey!" Dean bristled "my love life is awesome!"

Sam and Cas both gave him a meaningful look. Dean took another gulp of tequila - this time more warily - and crossed his arms.

"Well, all right, you said we weren't cursed, but seduced, mr Hotshot," he jerked his head up, "What did you mean?"

The angel sat down on the bed next to his friend and rested his elbows on his thighs in a surprisingly human gesture.

"I suppose it has something to do with the way she died. She seduces men, drives them crazy and finally comes for their souls," he explained softly, "but unless she is powerful enough to reap a soul herself, and I surely doubt she is, a reaper always takes them to where they belong and she remains with nothing."

"She's trying to fill the void left by the one she never had a chance to marry?" Sam sounded authentically moved; Dean snorted.

"You have something on your face, Samantha..." he licked his thumb, approached his brother and rubbed Sam's cheek under the eye, "There, there. Your makeup was running, but I've fixed it."

"Dean, Sam. Please," Castiel rebuked peevishly, "This is not funny. We have to figure out what to do."

Sam sighed. He reposed his hands on the table next to the laptop, as if he was hinting that he was not going to type in any more queries.

"I'd suggest Bobby..."

"It's like 20 hours driving from here," Dean noted morosely. Castiel cleared his throat. The older Winchester squinted at him. "What?!"

Castiel gave him one of this rare looks that meant  _What is wrong with you_.

"No, no way," the hunter protested. "I'm not leaving Baby here."

"Dean, think. We book the room for 3 days, we leave the car on a manned car park, Cas zaps us to Bobby's, we're back when we're ready."

The idea took a while to process.

"Oh..."

Dean took dropped onto the bed and pressed the cold bottle of booze against his temple. Of course. The plan was so simple. It was happening. His brain was melting. He was surely dying.


	4. Chapter 4

"You. Did. What?"

Dean suddenly found himself wishing that he was still on that damned rest area, slowly frying on molten asphalt. Damn, he would prefer sizzling in Hell than being here, scorched by Bobby's withering glare.

"You..." the man turned to Sam "I can understand that your harum-scarum big brother isn't exactly a mastermind, but you? You are better than this. You have failed me, Sam Winchester."

"Hey!"

The older brother was silenced by Bobby's single glance.

"And you?" the eldest hunter moved his crushing glare to the angel in turn "You? A shlemiel older than eternity, a Seraph... Seraph my ass! You let these idjits jump a monster with no preparation?"

"I admit it might have been unnecessarily heroic..."

Dean felt somewhat less self-conscious having realized that the warrior of God, the one who faced phalanges of demons in Hell and the most fearsome of Archangels on Earth without a blink squirmed and flushed before Bobby as much as Dean did.

"Heroic?" There was more scorn than anger in Singer's jibe "Heroic?! It was damn stupid, that's what it was."

"All right, Bobby..." Sam rose his open hands in a calming gesture "We've learned our lesson. We bugged out. Now will you please tell us if you have any ideas what to do?"

The host pursed his lips.

"There aint no methods of ganking her in the lore. Of course there are shittons of info on what the bitch it is and how it kills people, but not vice versa."

"Great..." Dean mumbled.

xXx

By the end of a night full of browsing the web and Bobby's impressive library the hunters finally decided to hit the hay. None of them managed to catch more than three hours of sleep. The sun had just risen when Dean was woken up by clank of dishes and a delicious sizzling sound.

Sam and Bobby were already in the kitchen; the younger Winchester was sitting by the table, leaning heavily on it and pressing a bag of ice to his head.

"Dude, I think it's starting..." he welcome his brother with a gloomy confession.

"My coconut aches too from this whole mumbo-jumbo, if it makes you feel better. I hate fusional languages," Bobby grumped. Strips of bacon temporarily played the role of his punching bags. It wasn't hard do guess the level of his hate for fusional languages from the way he poked the bacon and tossed it around a huge frying pan.

"You could have asked me to translate. I speak in all the tongues of men and angels..." there was a dispassionate croak from somewhere around the fridge. All three men were equally startled, "but I don't mind. I never serve any purpose anyway."

At first Dean snorted, but after a second he realized how bad it sounded. He looked into his friend's eyes with mild concern.

"You ok, buddy?"

"Actually, I feel well," the angel repied, then he moved his sad gaze onto Sam. "You've got fever," he noticed dryly.

Dean made an urging gesture, rising his eyebrows, as if he was herding Cas towards Sam. It took the angel a while to get the message.

"Yes. Healing. Right."

He pressed two stiffly straightened fingers to Sam's forehead, then took a place standing behind his back. The man blinked and frowned, focusing on the reaction of his body.

"I was able to heal effects of the temperature and dehydration, but the fever will continue getting higher."

"All right. Thanks, Cas," Sammy came alive; he sounded a bit less weary "By the way, aren't you two hot?"

"Oh, Sammy, you lady killer," Dean smirked, but a disturbing realization wiped the smile off his face "damn, I'm not. I'm kinda ok, even on the chilly side. What the heck?"

The younger brother jiggled the bag of ice before pressing it to another spot on his head.

"Perhaps you weren't seduced," he wondered aloud "You said your love life wasn't shitty after all. By the way, is there someone?"

"Sure there is," a sudden grin brightened up Dean's face "My baby, my sweet black mamacita. You think she saved me from the curse?"

"But of course, you dumbass," a plate with bacon and scrambled eggs landed on the table in front of Dean with a loud thump; Bobby was getting impatient, "Fetish for a car saved you from an ancient deity. So cute I'm gonna puke..."

"Well, there must be a reason I'm not boiling like a lobster."

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Sure like hell some crap ass will come from it. And what about mr hot wings?"

Dean and Bobby looked around; Castiel was quietly standing by the window and contemplating the view outside with a cheerless expression. Dean rolled his eyes - the angel must have zapped there when they weren't looking. From his previous place ten feet away.

"I feel really well. Like I am sobering up after a long period of unfounded euphoria," he seemed a bit out of it; that is, a bit  _more_  out of it than usually.

All three hunters frowned.

"All right, boys," Bobby placed a plate in front of Sam and sat down to eat his own breakfast, "whatever that bitch did to you, it's gonna kick in real hard in 54 hours, so we better tighten our asses and get the job done," suddenly he sounded more like a corporal than a grumpy housewife "We know who she is, we know what she did, we don't know how she got there, we don't know how to gank her. Any of you idjits has any idea?"

"Last time we dealt with a pagan deity, it had been deliberately brought from its homeland with a tree," Sam reminded matter-of-factly, poking his scrambled eggs with a dubious frown.

"Yeah, but this time it was the middle of freaking nowhere! There was literally nothing there except for road and that fucking weeds."

"Right..." the younger Wichester made a strange, stifled sound as if he was trying not to retch and pushed the plate away.

Bobby and Dean were outraged.

"Don't you like it?"

"Hey, it's green," Dean taunted his brother "100% yahoo cultivated, bacon is made of a pig that played with the farmer's kids and these free range eggs were stolen from hens that invaded Bobby's yard through a hole in the fence..."

"Wait!" Sam straightened up. "Free range. That can be it!"

His brother quirked his eyebrow.

"Dean, didn't you notice?" suddenly Sam had fire in his belly "There was this huge traditional, in tune with nature, shamanic, back to the roots, blah blah, eco farming center. It was like a mile away from the rest area. We must check it out!"


	5. Chapter 5

They chose a new-age-weird-journalists cover that did not require wearing suits, because Sam probably wouldn't be able to make it in more than one layer of fabric. Even the tie dye T-shirt and linen aladin pants he wore was too much. Luckily, Castiel's natural weirdness proved a great asset when dealing with a stoned, quirky leader who would probably believe till the end of his days that by "outrageous blasphemy" the angel meant the statement that GMO was safe, not the statement that grains had souls and personalities. The interview was short and fruitful.

As soon as Dean and Sam were zapped back to Bobby's by Castiel, the younger hunter put his head under a stream of cold water and downed two glasses of ice tea. The angel took off to conduct his own research; the hunters were left alone in charged silence.

Dean cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Bad news, Bobby..." he began. "They did bring something from Central Europe. Soil," he growled, "fucking soil from a fucking sacred hill or whatever. And they plowed it into the fields. It's probably every-frickin-where. How on earth are we gonna burn fucking fields?"

Singer slumped onto an armchair.

"Moreover," Sam's voice was muffled while he was trying to tug his T-shirt off "they did some sort of slavic hocus pocus there. One kid dug up some old scriptures, they had a blessing rite with chants and offerings and it looks like they magicked up a poludnitsa."

"Balls! I hate it when it happens."

"Brrr..." Dean shuddered "When you've spent an hour in that damned South, our good old summer feels pretty chilly."

His brother squinted at him with disbelief. Bobby kept muttering to himself:

"Damned kids today! They think they can play druids of priests or witches just because it's fun... It's always these ignorant dumbasses that summon the nastiest things."

Dean hauled a chair to in a patch of light seeping through a window, sat down and rubbed his arms.

"But why didn't any of them die?", he asked "They're kinda living in the ground zero. They should be going down like ninepins."

The other Winchester swirled around, looking for his notes from the previous night; he quickly skimmed through the scribbles and let out a triumphant "aha!"

"Well, it's kinda embarrassing, but according to the lore, a poludnitsa does not attack people who are wearing hats."

"You gotta be kidding me..." Dean drawled out; Bobby's expression conveyed the same message.

"It makes sense." Sam urged "They work in the fields for hours; they wear hats at all times, otherwise they would suffer serious solar strokes. A dude who stops in a rest area to take a leak or make a phonecall or whatever stays exposed to sunlight for only a couple of minutes, so he does not think of protecting the head. Moreover, she attacks exactly at noon. It takes a bit of a concurrence of events to have a vic."

"So that bitch got your asses because you weren't wearing hats?" Bobby moved his look from Sam to Dean with a quizzical expression that encompassed anger, scorn, pity and - mostly - amusement. "Sweet mother of Jesus. if you really kick the bucket it's gonna be the most hilarious death I've ever heard of."

Dean's jaws tensed up; there was a harsh undertone in his voice when he snapped, clapping his thigs:

"Well, I don't want to die the most hilarious death you've ever heard of, so maybe we'll get our asses movin' and do something?"

Sam absently nibbled at his lips as he was browsing through the small pile of notes he managed to prepare the previous day - if by small one could mean a heap of paper the size of a phone book.

"Guys," he said warily "the lore says that she acts through sun. I thought it was ridiculous, 'casue she has nothing to do with..." Sam choked on the name "Dazhbog, the god of sun... but it adds up. Noon, no hats, symptoms similar to sun stroke. If this part of the lore is true, perhaps the other is true too."

"That is?"

"That she can't stand shade. Whatever that means..."

Bobby heaved a deep sigh.

"Looks like we've got a whole another keyword to research..."

xXx

The hunters were ferreting around the living room that was buried in heaps of open books and loose printouts when the angel arrived, whipping a flurry of smaller sheets that added to the overall pandemonium.

"Hey! I had it arranged!" Bobby rebuked.

"It doesn't matter..." Castiel replied, slumping heavily onto an armchair next to the window, "None of my brethren is in possession of any useful information. You may stop laboring to find a solution. There is none. I failed. There is no point to my existence."

"Bullshit, Cas!" Dean scolded his friend, "We always fight to the last."

"Perhaps he's right..." Sam mumbled languidly; he was standing next to the fireplace and pressing his forehead against its stone mantel shelf "It's so damn hot in here..."

His brother stretched his back until something popped in his spine.

"Yeah, anyway. I could use a break. Anyone a drink?"

"A brew for me," Bobby asked absently, squinting at an antique Old Church Slavonic scripture.

"Anything cold for me..." Sam rasped.

"I don't imagine you have absinthe..." Cas whispered without taking his eyes off the drab, steely view outside the window.

In a few minutes Dean returned with a bottle of beer for the host, a glass of ice tea for his brother, a big mug of hot coffee for himself and a snide  _man up_  for the angel. Bobby sighed and clapped his hands.

"Ok, boys. One can't polish a turd. There aint nothing in this mumbo-jumbo. Let's go over what exactly happened once again."

"Well, there isn't much to it," the older Winchester sat down, clinging to his mug and trying to duck his head as deep into his collar as he could, "Four dead guys, a good lead, a mishap on the road, a mini-twister turning into a hot chick and blam, we're seduced."

Singer's grunt meant that he was too exhausted to deal with Dean's deportment.

"How exactly did she seduce you?"

"Irreversibly..." Castiel whinged from his improvised corner of spleen and misery.

There were three simultaneous angry snorts.

"All right," Bobby tried once again, "tell me what she looked like."

"Amber hair... And these mesmerizing emerald eyes..." the angel sighed, resting his chin on his hands, "and these lips that could suck out a man's soul..."

"Oh balls, he's turning into a shitty poet." Singer rasped.

"Wait," Sam zinged up "I was pretty sure she was a brunette. Lean, long face, tanned skin, dark eyes. I'd say latino type."

"Oh, shut up, kid," Dean opposed, "she was a brunette, but she was pale, with blue eyes and these... You know... Really, really strange lips. DSL-ish, but not exactly. More like... Dunno, Scarlet Johanson"

"Whatever that means..." Sam smirked.

Bobby choked on his bear. It took him a while to connect all the dots. When it finally clicked, he sprung to his feet.

"It might be it!" he started to ferret among the papers with a new energy "Each of you idjits described a different missy. That's how she seduces folk..."

Dean started up as well, tossing off the blanket he had thrown on his shoulders.

"All right then! She can change her visage. Perhaps this necklace-thingy had something to do with it."

Sam joined his friends in their scramble for something to draw with. There were tones of paper available, but not a single pen or pencil. Typical.

"You mean this black and silver something?" he asked, groping around under a pile of loose sheets.

"It was a golden pendant. On a black lash..." Castiel sighed wearily as if he was reprimanding a bunch of challenged children.

"No, dude, it was blue and..." Dean's words got stuck in his throat, "No. No way. No!"

He exchanged a frightened look with Bobby.

Then Bobby with Sam.

Then Sam with Dean, but this time the younger Winchester seemed amused.

"Scarlet Johanson, huh?"

"Uhm, whatever..."

Dean decided to throw something on, in part to find a distraction and hide his embarrassment, in part due to a real need. He fumbled in his duffel bag he was able to transport from their morel earlier that day after several minutes of listening to Castiel's grizzling about becoming a Seraph only to serve as a baggage handler for the Winchesters (which was kinda zany, because the angel rarely railed; when he did, it was always about Dean arsing up and landing in trouble). After a while of struggle with the utter mess inside he managed to find his favorite flannel shirt and throw it on. It smelled vaguely of gunpowder and cosmoline, but it was warm and fluffy. He had fastened half the buttons when he noticed Sam's terrified stare.

"Dude, the hell are you doing? It's blazing hot in here."

In turn, Bobby and Dean gave Sam a terrified stare.

"No, it's ok. Warm, but ok." the host grouched.

"It's freakin' freezing!" Dean exclaimed.

"The air temperature is 77 degrees Fahrenheit, which is an optimal temperature for an adult human being" Cas ensured bleakly, "which is of no import, because we are all going to die shortly..."

This time all three men gave the angel a terrified stare.

Castiel kept staring at the horizon with doulfulness written all over his face.


	6. Chapter 6

By late evening it was obvious that the seduction affected the whole trio, though the symptoms were different for each of them. Surprisingly, Sam was taking his version of the curse pretty well. As long as he was wearing a damp T-shirt and had some ice at hand, he felt pretty well.

Dean, on the other hand, was a mess. No amount of blankets and sweaters he dug himself into or hot liquids Bobby kept pumping into him could keep him warm. For the whole evening he was curled up on the couch, shivering and moaning. There was a moment when his foster father jeered him and told him to man up, but soon enough it was obvious that Dean's state was really serious. And the clock was ticking...

The seduction rendered Castiel absolutely useless. Somewhere about dinner time he started blurting really craptastic aphorisms about hopelessness and a lack of purpose, and the overall Weltschmertz. After nightfall Bobby caught him toying with his blade, tracing its glinting edge with a broody look. Singer took it away from Cas like ones takes a dangerous toy from a child.

It was these two - Sam and Bobby - who had to make preparations for the hunt. Luckily, they had stumbled on a trail that was consistent through many versions of the lore. Fern. It was the plant of the shade; it bloomed in the night and it had a power of making every neck of the woods even darker and gloomier. A few ancient sources mentioned a rope made of fern fibers. The plan was to tie the poludnitsa with the rope and haul her to somewhere the sun does not reach.

Castiel used his last moments of relative sanity to deliver armfuls of fern collected in Central Europe on St. John's night (the hunters were aware that time and space were fluent, but it was impressive anyway). He did it just in time. Not more than an hour later Bobby had an impression that the gloominess of Central European backwoods and a sight of an old, decaying oak covered with lichen could trigger an irresistible urge to hang himself in the Seraph.

Sam worked a bit slower than Bobby, but he was able to make a few yards of good, strong rope before he needed a break. He stretched his arms and glanced at his brother, who was laying on the coach in the adjacent room, looking like a gigantic, fluffy, shivering ball of misery.

"Why do you think it hit him like this?" he murmured, turning to his foster father, "I don't get it. And what was that crap about blue eyes and Scarlet Johansson?"

"Really?" Bobby cocked his head.

He spent a while groping in the pile of weed in search of any fresh leaves.

"Well, for all I know my symptoms are kinda standard, but them? A snowman and some shitty pseudo-philosophical killjoy? And how does one exactly die of the mopes?"

"It's because you're in a standard situation, boy," Bobby found nothing to work with, so he decided to test the piece of rope he had already made. It squeaked when he put his foot through a loop and pulled, but it didn't break, "Hell, I think it'll have to do." He sighed and hunched, "Son, all these poor fellas and you are kinda the same. You needed a romance, you know. Hookup with a foxy lady. Passion. Snu-snu. Fucking butterflies. Chemistry and all that bullshit. It works for you, but not for these two bimbos here."

Sam frowned in puzzlement.

"Your brother is no spring chicken..." Bobby continued "He had all the chemistry and snu-snu he wanted. Now I guess needs something else."

The younger hunter bit his lip in pensiveness. He caught himself thinking that Dean and him were always there for each other. He could always count on his big brother. He got so used to thinking that no matter what happened, his brother would always be there to save the day that he never realized that Dean did not have the same comfort; that he must have been deadly tired with being the pillar of strength. He loved his dorky big brother with his whole heart, but he was not exactly Dean's guardian angel...

"And what about Cas?" he asked warily.

"What'ya think, huh? What does he need?"

"... a purpose?" Sam suggested, squinting and rising one eyebrow as is he was expecting a rebuke for a wrong answer, "but what does it have to do with Dean?"

Bobby eyed him dubiously.

"Damn, the bitch doesn't dog-fuck. Half of your brain has already melted..." he huffed "What it has to do with Dean? Everything. This poor idjit fucking died for your schmuck of a brother."

"I thought it was for humani..." he trailed off, discouraged by Bobby's scornful look, "You think that they...? No. That's gross."

"Goddamnit, what's wrong with you?" the older hunter flinched at this suggestion, "I aint sayin they wanna do the horizontal hula. I'm just sayin' they need each other."

Sam tilted his head and clucked his tongue in thought.

"Holy cow..."

"Now," the older hunter grunted "pull your finger out before you grow lady parts. We still gotta figure out how to magic up some shade."

xXx

Dean was woken up by panting and moaning that was coming from Sam's room. He started up, but as soon as he threw the bed cover aside he felt a wave of chill that made his muscles cramp; he curled up pulling his knees to his chest and fighting for breath. Even if his life depended on it, he wouldn't be able to move.

Luckily Bobby and Castiel heard Sam's moans as well; Dean recognized their footsteps and urging voices (or rather Bobby outright yelling at the depressed angel), then a sound of running water and a splash. Despite being dazed by pain he guessed that Sammy's side of the curse was as intense as his own. If the older Winchester was freezing to the bone, the younger was probably suffering deadly fever.

For a moment he wondered how Cas was. It wasn't long before the angel opened the door and stopped in the threshold, leaning heavily on the door jamb.

"Life..." he began ruefully "so fragile and so evanescent. Is there a point to it? Why do we, miserable little bugs crawling on the tapestry of eternity, fight and struggle to carry on fore one more insignificant millisecond?"

"Damn it, dude..." the hunter drawled out, gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering "come here and heal me!"

"What's the point of it? Today, tomorrow or in a thousand years, we will all perish; give in to the overwhelming cold of space. We will all be defeated by nature's unbowed impetus towards destruction and stillness..."

"Cas, for fuck's sake!"

The Seraph reluctantly sat on Dean's bed. His fingers hovered over the man's shoulder.

"It will be to no avail. Who am I to defy the claim that death has lain on you?"

Nonetheless, he lowered his hand. The very moment it touched Dean's skin, the freezing cold and the pain were gone.

"Uhm..." Castiel grunted "I think I've just said something incredibly stupid," he croaked, a bit abashed.

"Ok, dude, thanks, now go check on Sammy..." Dean panted hoarsely.

"Bobby made me help him first. I tried to heal him, but like I said, I am able only to alleviate the effects, not heal the fever itself."

The hunter pursed his lips, wondering what it could mean. He was so deep in thought that he ignored the fact that Cas's hand was still resting lightly on his shoulder. When he finally noticed it, he hissed:

"Hey, get out of my bed. Shoo!"

The angel obeyed; as soon as he stood up Dean felt his muscles tense up and a wave of biting cold creep up his spine. He quaked; the spasm of muscles striving to produce heat and sustain life was excruciating.

"Holy fucking fuck..." he was hardly able to force sound through clenched teeth.

It ended the very moment Castiel's fingers touched his wrist. He rose his eyebrows, guessing the worse from the angel's astonishment.

"Do you...feel... Kinda better?"

The Seraph nodded. Dean groaned in disbelief:

"You gotta be kidding me..."


	7. Chapter 7

"So basically I'm not gonna freeze to death and mr Fin de Siecle will stop blurting shitty poems about suicide as long as we're in physical contact?" Dean jeered, sipping hot chocolate from the giant mug that had already managed to become his favorite. Castiel was sitting on the edge of the bed with one hand slightly pressed to Dean's free forearm. The hunter wasn't sure if the slight blush he saw on the angel's face was a sign of embarrassment over his gloomy philosophical harangue or a sign of discountenance by the fact that he was affixed to a mortal.

Bobby nodded with a crooked smirk.

"Great," Dean choked "because hunting a monster with an angel glued to my ass just can't go wrong..."

"Look, Dean, I had this crisis but now I am practically good," Sam mumbled from behind the giant bag of ice he had wrapped over his shoulders; ice cubes clinked in the bucket when he moved his feet around to stir the ice-water mixture.

"No way, Sammy. You're not going anywhere near that frying pan. Bobby and us will gank the bitch... Somehow..." Dean's voice trailed off when he realized how unconvincing he sounded.

"Perhaps we can find a way to unglue you," the younger Winchester suggested half-heartedly.

"Right. I'm sure there are shitloads of legends and instructions on freeing a dude from a clingy angel, especially in pagan sources." Dean barked, ignoring Castiel's somewhat resentful gasp.

"Boy's right," Bobby sighed "we better do something to unbind you two lovebirds. We still got 34 hours. I guess you can't go that long without taking a leak..."

xXx

Bobby gave the formation in front of him a look of disapproval. Castiel was sitting next to his friend, with his arm wrapped loosely around the man's shoulders and partially covered with the same blanket. As if it was not cute enough, the hunter was still wearing these fluffy red slippers Jody had brought in the morning. Well, at least Dean wasn't dying and the Seraph was free from suicidal or - which was the biggest relief - poetic inclinations.

"There is one thing, son, but you're not gonna be happy about it," he announced solemnly, choosing to ignore the angel. He was still a tiny bit resentful of the tawdriness of Castiel's burbling and of the angel's general unwillingness to help unless he was all the way yelled at.

"Man, please. I'm gonna be happy about anything that lets me come unstuck from this Baudelaire here and not turn into a frozen turkey."

Singer decided he would go easy on the boy. Revealing the whole truth at once could give Dean a seizure or a stroke.

"I think that you two bimbos have to stick to one another to nullify the effects of seduction becasue, uhm..." he stopped, having noticed how Dean's eyebrow quirked at the mere mention of Cas and him and seduction in one sentence. "Well, because the poludnitsa apparently fucked up and made you need one another instead of craving her..." he wasn't ready to tell Dean that it was not the case.

"I don't get it," the older Winchester cocked his head.

The younger snarled:

"How come you don't get it? Mind you, you're a bonding expert. You should quit hunting and become a couple counselor."

Dean gritted his teeth, trying to remember that he should give his brother preferential treatment due to his affliction, but every minute it was becoming harder.

"Just listen. When the... bond...is fresh and insecure " Bobby focused on the proper choice of words; he felt like he was herding cattle trough a minefield, but full of nuclear warheads instead of landmines "it causes anxiety, longing and needs. The need is gonna... lessen... once the bond is more secure... Reinforced... oh, blast it!" he finally gave up. "You two idjits are all lovey-dovey and clingy like tweens right now. All you need to do to stop clinging to each other is to form a real bond that will last."

Dean tilted his head.

"So... You are saying that we have to be more bound to be... less bound?"

"Yep."

"That's stupid." Winchester summed up blankly. Cas uttered a low grunt of disapproval, but he seemed to get that he was being ignored, so he acted accordingly.

"No, it aint! That's how it works. You asses are glued together like kiddos making out after prom, but have you ever seen old folks following each other around like this? That's what happens when folks get real close. They don't need to worry. They know they'll stand by each other no matter what, so they don't have to stick to one another and watch one another at all times..."

"Trust. Respect." Sam harangued "Rings a bell?"

"The hell you're talking about?"

"Instead of seducing you, she made you...uhm...lech after each other. She kicked the bucket right before her wedding, right? So he is looking for a poor fella she could marry, ain't she? That's what you gotta do to beak the curse," Bobby finally managed to choke it out. The sheer terror written all over Dean's face indicated that it wasn't the best strategy, but hell, the boy was tough. He could take this.

"What?" Dean started up, tossing Cas's arm off. He immediately curled up and moaned in pain, then scrambled back onto the couch to tuck himself in with the angel, whose eyes were already starting to become misty and who was starting to effuse an aura of a soulful afflatus.

"You are saying..." Winchester panted "that we should... No..."

"Yep, boys. If this poem aint bilge, you gotta get married ancient Slavic style. Just the rites, you know," he added conciliatory "no smooching, no consummation..."

"Oh great, cause that's such a relief..." Dean's lips moved, but there was barely any sound coming from his mouth, "aaand it's written in a poem. Awesome," there was a moment of delay, then he budged as if he was woken up by a bucket of ice thrown onto his head, "I'm gonna have a fucking fake gay wedding with an angel because a poem says so? No! No way! No fucking way!"

Singer called him to order with a somber look.

"Do you want to hunt that bitch holding hands with Cas or what? If I'm sayin' it's the only way, it is the only way."

"Dean, perhaps he is right..." the angel horned in; Winchester couldn't help an impression that his voice was less grating than usually; a bit warmer, a bit more pleasant "If it is just a ritual, there shouldn't be any problem. Your brother's life is worth it."

"For once I agree with Cas..." Sam grizzled from his bucket of ice.

Bobby could see his foster son almost physically wither and dwindle in the face of this imperative. Damn, he went to Hell for Sam. Pulling a charade with a fake wedding shouldn't be that much of a problem.

"Sammy," the older Winchester rose his hand in a solemn gesture "It's the most horrifying thing I will have ever done for you. Remember that!"

"Thank you, Dean. I'm flattered." the angel said sneeringly.

"You know what? Blow me, Cas," Dean threw his future husband a withering glare, then turned to Sam, hissing: "OK, I'll do it, but I get to chose the tune in the car for the rest of my life. Bobby!" he growled with a kamikaze determination, looking at his foster father in turn, "Bring it on!"


	8. Chapter 8

"All right. Important or not, we're not gonna braid anyone's hair," Dean stretched his back and yawned "this one is out for sure."

Sam asked matter-of-factly:

"How many sources mention it?"

"One in my share," Bobby mumbled, nibbling at his pencil, "Bread, on the other hand, is everywhere, but hell if I know what to do with it. Here it says it is an offering for the gods, there it ways it is for the guests. Cas, any ideas?"

"I never frequented pagan ceremonies," the angel replied with a little pout, "nonetheless I believe that dividing the bread makes sense. Sharing offerings with attendants was a common practice in pagan cultures."

Dean rose his hand and pointed out with a grin:

"Yeah, he's right. It says here that half the bread goes to the gods and half to guests, but then you'll have to cut it in the shrine, not at home. Damn, these Slavs could make up their minds."

Sam gave his brother a haughty look.

"We're talking about thousands of years on half a continent. There's no such thing as 'these Slavs should make up their minds'", he mocked his brother's deep voice and manner, "We need to select the elements that are vital."

"I surely hope that taking one's shoes off and putting them on the table is not that important," Castiel suggested with a dubious frown, "It would be really uncomfortable."

"No mention of shoes here," Luckily, Singer had the final word.

"All right, we scratch the shoes out. What about this shirt-stealing-thing?" Dean looked at Bobby and Sam expectantly from above his pile of notes and books.

Despite Cas's constant presence his head was beginning to ache; he tried to stick to the consoling thought that it was a natural effect of spending several hours on picking a consensus version of the rite from all the sources that were voluminous, but vague and distorted by Christian chroniclers. It was tiresome, but they were getting somewhere. Moreover, focusing on fishing out anything that made sense from folk tales and chronicles effectively diverted Dean's attention from the fact that he was sitting with his back propped against Cas's back.

...and that all in all he didn't mind.

"No, I'd scratch it out. I believe stealing intimate articles of clothing it is a method of picking the bride. You're already stuffed," Sam assessed.

"Which reminds me," Bobby started to squirm in his armchair without lifting his gaze from a faded, battered volume, "you're gonna have to decide who is who. It ain't a partnership or any lefty figment. Bride and groom do different things."

Dean felt a pleasant vibration when low, deep laughter rumbled in Cas's chest.

"I can be the bride," the angel said, but before Dean could allow himself to wallow in the sweet surge of gratitude and relief, Cas added: "My self-esteem is not based on a distorted notion of gender roles or a delusion of superiority."

"Goddamnit, Cas! Are we gonna really gonna go over and over it again?" Dean groaned, "How many times do I need to tell you? I have nothing against chicks. I like chicks. I'm simply glad that I'm a dude and it isn't my fault that it is beyond your little liberal asexual brain!"

"Dude," Sam couldn't help a smirk that crooked his lips, "do you really have this kind of conversations? Seriously?"

The older brother threw him a challenging glare.

"Any problem?"

"No, of course not. It's a good thing. Setting thing straight before marriage is important. It will let you avoid conflicts and misunder...ouch!" he didn't manage to duck the huge leather-bound book Dean threw at him.

Bobby heaved a deep sigh.

"Kids, kids, kids..." he closed the recently browsed book, "it looks that we're set. Now Sam, Jody and I are gonna do a little supply run and you two... Just, you know, enjoy yourselves."

xXx

"Dean?" the Seraph began cautiously "It seems that we have a little bit of downtime..."

Dean didn't lift his look from the tabled Sam had left him. He was starting to comprehend the insane popularity of clips with silly cats. They did cheer him up after all. He murmured to encourage Cas to speak.

"If anything goes wrong tomorrow..."

"Everything goes just fine," the hunter snarled, "it's a poludnitsa, not the fucking end of the world."

The angel sighed, but kept speaking:

"I just thought that perhaps there is a place you would like to see, but I won't insist if you don't want to."

Dean put the tablet down and twisted his neck only to make sure Cas saw his eye roll.

"What is it supposed to be? A date?"

Cas sighed even deeper.

"This isn't supposed to be anything. The night before we faced Raphael you took me to a brothel. I simply wanted to return the favor."

Winchester couldn't help but laugh at the memory.

"Damn, I'm sorry, man. It was weird."

"It was nice. You wanted to provide me with the kind of experience you found the most important and enjoyable. I cherish the memory, although," he searched for proper words, "yes, it was weird."

Dean stretched his arms and jiggled his shoulders to settle more comfortably against Cas's back.

"Well, we could use a trip to a whorehouse. It's sort of our stag party."

"As you wish," Castiel was already reaching to Dean's forehead when the hunter stopped him with a gesture.

"Wait. I've got another idea. Can you make us invisible?"

xXx

Dean took a look around and uttered a moan of disappointment that echoed in the precipitous dark hall.

"No aliens? Damn... Come on, let's go."

"Wait," Castiel noticed something that attracted his attention. He tugged at Dean's hand like a puppy tugging on a leash, pulling him towards a gigantic construction made of alternating smaller and larger metal rings. "It's an ion propulsion system based on hot plasma! I didn't expect you would have the technology before 2050."

"All right, geek. You'll come here some day with Sam. Now let's go. No aliens, no fun."

"Just give me a minute." Castiel kept ferreting in the concrete, domed hangar, "Humans are amazing," he muttered to himself, admiring another arcane installation.

"Booo-rriiing!" Dean moaned, trying to maintain a sullen expression, but the sight of Cas's childish enthusiasm was bringing a warm smile to his face.

"On the contrary," the angel pointed out a bit absentmindedly, running his fingers along a cleft in the meshy, black surface of a ruffled cone the size of an elevator, "look, thermal insulation based on fulleren. Astonishing."

"Cas, can we please go now?"

"Dean, I don't understand. You were the one who waned to visit Area 51," the Seraph looked at his friend and tilted his head, examining Dean's face with close attention; now that they were alone this proximity felt oddly familiar. Even the fact that Castiel's hand rested heavily on Winchester's shoulder didn't seem odd. With a faint attempt of smile he finally gave up.

"All right. Where to?"

Dean wiggled his eyebrows with a roguish smirk.

"How about the vault in Fort Knox?"

Unfortunately, as soon as they got there Castiel yielded to a sudden upsurge of righteousness, do Dean's attempts to snatch one tiny gold bar were futile. Still, even despite the inability to pick a souvenir it was the best not-date in Dean's entire life.


	9. Chapter 9

The pinkish tint of sunrise was already spreading on the eastern side of the horizon when Sam led Dean and Cas out of the house to take their vows and receive a blessing by a bonfire that served as an improvised shrine. Bobby was already waiting there, ready to play the part of Zhertsa - a priest that blessed the newlyweds. He was wearing his best white shirt (that is, his only white shirt), cradling a writing pad to his chest and holding a rye bread tucked under his arm. Sam hoped that the best man at a Slavic wedding was allowed to be dressed like a sunbather. He could bear nothing but bermuda shorts and a bundle of ice cubes wrapped in a towel across his shoulders.

"All right, let's get it over with." Bobby began briskly. He scratched his temple with the same battered pencil he'd been nibbling at for the whole night. "You need to give each other a gift," he ordained. The mutilated, formerly yellow pencil served as a baton to back his authority.

"What kind of gift?" Dean gritted his teeth. His embarrassment and frustration were beyond the point of venting them in a simple outburst. He was trying to stay calm, but he kept darting here and there and kicking his heels like a skittish horse.

The stress had an exactly opposite effect on Castiel. The angel was immobile, pale, barely breathing. His forearm felt like a stone sculpture; the tension was palpable even through the layers of fabric.

"Dunno. Something valuable... and personal."

Dean's mind went completely blank. He wiped the sweat of his forehead and run his hand down his jeans when he felt a cold, hard rectangle in his pocket. His zippo lighter, the one he got from his father after his first successful salt and burn. He remembered the instinctive relief he felt each time he found it in his pocket and a moment of panic when it wasn't there.

"I...uhm..." he grunted, handing the lighter to Cas with an uncertain half-smile that resembled an expression one assumes when pleading for mercy, "I thought that... It's stupid, but it's a good old zippo. Kinda... like you. Sometimes it goes on the fritz and you have to whop it real hard to make it work, but eventually it always..." he trailed off, having heard Sam's muffled snicker. He looked around with utter desperation and his eyes caught Cas's gaze. To his surprise the angel was focused, listening intently to every word Dean said. The hunter cleared his throat and rose his head, "and you're a Seraph. I read that fire is your essence, so... you know... whatever it means..." he lost his bottle somewhere halfway the sentence "just take the goddamn lighter!" the blush that crept up his face must have reached the darkest shade of crimson by the time he finished.

"Thank you. It's nice of you," the angel replied woodenly, taking the lighter from Dean's shaking fingers, then examined it with his usual unconcealed curiosity, "As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil, for I am the evilest son of a bitch..." he read out and threw his friend a quizzical glance, "That's not true. You are one of the best people I have ever known."

"Well, yeah, just... you know..." Dean scratched the back of his head like a teenager caught in the act of preparing water balloons filled with paint, "never mind."

Castiel sighed, suddenly dispirited as if he remembered something that filled him with sorrow, but he shook it off after a moment. He slipped the lighter to the inner pocket of his trench; one slight gesture of his head was enough for Dean to know that he should move his hand from Cas's forearm to give the angel some elbowroom. Castiel closed his eyes and folded his hands for a few seconds as if in prayer. When he opened them again to present the gift to Dean, the hunter was bedazzled by the glimmer of silver and anthracite, and pure white. It took him a while to recognize the shape of a feather. He was so enthralled that he snatched it from Cas's open hands without waiting for permission.

The feather glistened like it was made of a single leaf of metal, but it was real; from the thick, stiff rachis that seemed to shine with a dazzling shade of white to the delicate, silky outline of the vane that had the deepest, richest shade of black Dean had ever seen.

"Is it," he swallowed loudly, unable to take his eyes off the feather, "Is it yours?"

"Yes."

"Wow..."

Oblivious to Bobby's and Sam's efforts to peep he took a quick look around, then slipped his thong bracelet off, unknotted it with his teeth and used it as a string for the feather to wear it on his neck. It wasn't until he had slipped the feather under his shirt that he noticed the others' surprised looks.

"What?" he snapped sourly.

Sam providently took a step back and made sure that his face expressed all the pain and misery in the world. Just in case.

Bobby cleared his throat.

"Now, the groom showers the bride with three kinds of grains as a sign of fecundity and abundance," he put quite an effort in distorting the word _fecundity_ with a cough. The eldest hunter presented Dean with a box of Kellogg's Special K. He bristled at Dean's scornful snort.

"It says 3 grains..." Singer explained a bit dubiously, pointing at the package.

"Ya sure it's gonna work?"

"Well, excuse me for not keeping bags of freshly threshed wheat, barley and rye in my cupboard!"

"All right, let's do it," Winchester said halfheartedly digging his hands in the light, crispy cereal.

Castiel was surprisingly calm when Dean was pouring the grains over him; he waited patiently with his eyes closed and his head slightly bowed. The man felt this peace emanating from the angel, imbuing him, sending a wave of pleasant tingling along his skin.

"You have a bit of..." he said under his breath, then reached out diffidently and ran his fingers through Cas's hair to brush off a few pieces of cereal. He felt the Seraph tense up under his touch and try to duck his hand. It was the slightest possible movement, but it was enough for Dean to feel like an idiot. "Sorry," he rasped.

Singer was careless with this subtle game.

"Now, boys," he announced, scanning through his notes, "it gets a bit..."

"Gay," Sam coughed; he immediately assumed a tortured expression and poured another portion of ice-water mixture over his shoulders to appease his brother's murderous inclination.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean shrugged, visibly disappointed by the fact that Sam's state precluded any attempt of chastisement.

"Ye'r gonna have to have your hands tied together," Bobby pulled a red ribbon out of his pocket and handed it to Sam, who proceeded to tie their wrists: Dean's left to Cas's right.

"Here you go..."

Dean knew exactly what his brother had in mind.

"No bow," he growled in a low voice.

"All right, no bow," Sam decided to be merciful.

In the meantime, Singer lit two wax candles.

"Pull your socks up, you idjits. Time for the vow," he rebuked, handing one candle to each of the betrothed.

"Fun fact: Legend has it that the one who holds the candle higher is gonna dominate in the marriage," Sam was as accommodating as always.

Dean felt so dejected that he wouldn't even care...

...if it wasn't for the fact that Cas's candle was just a bit higher than his own.

He rose his hand slightly, just to gain a few millimeters of advantage.

"Now, repeat, kids," Bobby suddenly became oddly solemn, "Oh, balls,"

"What?" Dean asked, still eyeing Castiel's candle.

"We're gonna need your father's name. I guess that _God_ is rather a job description."

"My father's name mustn't be spoken," the Seraph stated without taking his eyes off the flame of Dean's candle.

His own flame flickered a bit higher again.

Sam breathed a quiet snort.

"I guess we're gonna go with it," Singer clucked his tongue, "so, here we go!" he started prompting the text.

"I, Dean, son of John, summon Perun and Svarog to bear witness that I take you, Castiel, son of him, who must not be named... " Dean repeated with his look firmly fixed on the candlewick, "...to be my husband and swear you love, fidelity and honesty and that I will not leave you until death do us part."

He felt the warmth of the flame on his chin as he rose his candle for another inch or so.

Cas's hand moved just a second later.

Sam snickered.

"I, Castiel, son of him, who must not be named..." unlike Dean, the angel managed to say it without giggling, "summon Mokosh and Svarog to bear witness..."

"Goddamn it, Cas, are you gonna turn into the fucking Statue of Liberty?" the hunter snapped, rolling his eyes, "stop screwing around and just hold it, man..."

Castiel capitulated, a bit abashed. Dean lowered his candle as well.

"that I take you, Dean, son of John, to be my husband and swear you love, fidelity and that I will not leave you until death do us part..." he finished with a pout.

Sam crouched a bit to compare the candles' height. It was a perfect tie.


	10. Chapter 10

"Now, the offering to the gods, the offering to the Domoviye and it'll be pretty much the size of it," the Zhertsa grumped while Sam was struggling to free his brother's and Cas's hands from the ribbon.

"It would be easier with a bow..." the younger Winchester grizzled.

"Shut up!"

Singer just sighed. He proceeded to cut the bread he had tucked under his arm in half, murmuring an incantation that sounded like he was trying to pluck something from between his front teeth with his tongue. Having done it, he tossed one half of the bread into the empty hood of a red, wheelless, rust-eaten pickup.

The Winchesters and Castiel stared at him in shock.

"It was the first wreck in my salvage yard. Brings good luck," Bobby explained, herding the newlyweds towards the house, "If there are any gods anywhere near this shack, they are in this junker. Now, ye'r gonna have to carry the..."

"I know!" Dean drawled out. He bent to pick Castiel up, failed, grunted, shot a glance at Sam to check if he noticed this failure (of course Sam did), then tried again and this time he succeeded, but he was sure that something snapped in his spine. The pain lasted but a moment - it was immediately eased by a gentle touch of Castiel's hand on Dean's neck. The hunter flushed, trying to convince himself that being healed after he failed to pick up one weedy holy tax accountant was not humiliating if said holy tax accountant happened to be one of the most powerful creatures in the Universe.

"What are you, some kind of an Iron Man?" Dean rolled his eyes, panting and wheezing.

"I told you that it was not easy to fit my true form into this tiny body. My true form is approximately the size of..."

"Chrysler Building. I know..." 

"After my resurrection I am even larger. You played a part in it, so I cannot see why..." 

"Fun fact!" Sam cut him off just in time, "The bride must be carried over the threshold so that spirits of the ancestors can't cotton on to the presence of a stranger in the house. Once she's inside, she's family and the ancestors accept her."

"So, in other words," Dean panted while Castiel was smoothening out his coat, "you're saying that ancient Slavs thought that their ancestors were dumbasses?"

"It seems so."

"The newlyweds shouldn't talk too much," Singer reminded; he looked more than pleased with the fact that a tradition of thousands of years was in accordance with his own needs. He handed a carton of milk to Dean and two hot-dog buns to Cas, "Now, kids" he urged, gesturing towards the door, "shove it under the threshold and let's move on."

"Fun fact: the Domoviye, or home boggarts, have to be appeased with an offering. Otherwise they will piss to milk to spoil it."

The older Winchester didn't honor his brother with an answer. He had no words; he just poured the milk over the buns that Cas was struggling to tuck under the threshold while Bobby kept murmuring his crackling incantations.

"This pagan ceremony is outrageous," Castiel, on the other hand, was full-on nagging under his breath; it was so surprising and human that Dean felt his anger soften, "there is no such thing as Domoviye..."

Suddenly, the whole building quaked, all the windows slammed shut and the lights flickered; the hunters shared a frightened look.

"It seems that you have home boggarts after all," Dean assessed.

"It'd explain why milk always tastes funny here..." Sam added, going paler every second.

Bobby just shrugged with a dejected sigh.

xXx

The last part included sharing a meal. The newlyweds knelt on a deer hide next to the fireplace with a bottle of mead, a bowl of salt, and a half of the bread - that is, the remaining half that hadn't been sacrificed to Bobby's lucky red pickup.

Dean refused to wonder what was more awkward: dipping a piece of bread in salt and then placing it in Cas's mouth or having Cas do it to him. Luckily, the awkwardness of this scene didn't fully reach his consciousness. He was too busy watching out for Sam, who was desperate to take a picture of the newlyweds. Perhaps keeping his little brother at gunpoint of a shotgun loaded with rock salt was a bit brutal, but then again, trying to snap a picture of Dean feeding a guy wasn't sweet either.

There was another thing that detracted his attention from the ceremony. Despite conserving his sense of humor and bitchiness, Sam was noticeably strained. Sweat glistened on his forehead; his chest heaved in shallow, labored breath. He slumped onto a coach as soon as they entered the library and didn't look like he could get up anymore; attending the wedding must have drained his strength completely. They were running out of time.

Through a haze of sensory overload Dean caught himself wondering whether the tradition of mixing mead in the newlywed's goblets was meant only to symbolically reinforce the bond or it had a very practical purpose. Little did he know that Sam had exactly the same thoughts or that he imagined that sharing a wedding drink could have saved the life of a very nasty fictional king.

"That's it," Bobby clapped his thighs when Dean had finished wincing and pulling faces after downing his goblet of disgustingly sweet, yeast-smelling mead, "check if it worked."

Dean and Castiel shared an uneasy glance. The angel slowly let go of Dean's arm.

The hunter moaned in pain and curled up. Cas gripped his wrist immediately, but the moment of curse's action at full capacity was all but enough to make Dean pass out.

"Damnit..." there was more fear than anger in this whisper, "it didn't work."

Bobby's expression was completely blank for a moment. After a while he gathered himself and stood up to boss with his usual pretended cheer:

"Back to plan A then," he stated gruffly, "Jody's gonna take care of Sam and we're gonna try to gank the bitch no matter what, guns blazing, Winchester style."

Dean pursed his lips.

"At least we all go down together. One big happy family."

He was about to get up as well when he noticed something odd in Cas's usually impassive face. The change was minuscule, barely discernible, but after years of learning Castiel's body language Dean had no problems deciphering the bafflement, agitation and hope that had caused it.

"Family?" the angel mouthed the question. He didn't even have to do that much. Dean understood anyway.

"Man, of course you're family," he stood up to pull his friend to his feet. A slightest smile curled Castiel's lips.

"Well, don't be so pleased. See where it brought you..." the hunter saddened; he slouched and licked his lower lip nervously, "Damnit. Sam and I have always known we'd go down like this sooner or later, but you? You had hell knows how many years ahead and here you are..."

"Dean," the angel placed his hands on the man's shoulders; he cocked his head to catch Dean's gaze and somehow managed to keep Dean looking him in the eyes when he spoke in a low, husky voice, "It's all right. I regret nothing that brought me here. I want nothing else than to be close to you. Even if we, as you say, go down today, it's all right..." he made a small pause; one corner of his mouth twitched in a shy, gawkish smile as he cast his eyes down and finished even softer, "You'll always be the most important person to me."

Dean's breath was caught in his throat; he thought he got a hang of Cas's intention, but he still had to fight his knotted muscles to whisper:

"...and you'll always be family. No matter what."

Castiel's hands slid down the hunter's shoulders and arms. His fingers lingered for a while, loosely wrapped around the sides of Dean's palms, then moved away.

Nothing happened.

Nothing, except for the time stopping for Dean when the realization rained down on him: sweet, bitter and scary as hell. He couldn't tell how long they stood there, not touching anymore, staring into each other's eyes, a bit abashed, a bit relieved, a bit frightened, a bit happy.

Dean would have sworn that Bobby's voice was guttural and wobbly when he urged the hunters to grab the ropes and fire blankets and _hurry the hell up and go gank the bitch for fucks sake._


	11. Chapter 11

As soon as Jody's pickup that was full to the brim with bags of ice cubes rolled onto Singer's yard, Bobby and Dean grabbed their duffel bags, coils of fern rope and fire blankets. They had Castiel transport them to the guarded parking lot, where Impala had been waiting for three days. Dean had been insisting he preferred to drive to their destination than just pop up - as he said - naked. Admittedly Bobby had no idea why a car could help with the hunt, but he was too exasperated to engage in futile cross talk with his foster son.

The drive from the town to that parking lot by the road took nearly an hour. It would have taken longer if Singer and Castiel didn't manage to talk Dean out of taking a trip to a car wash. Yes, three days of brimming in the merciless southern sun did leave Baby in a terrible state. Yes, driving something like this was bringing Dean shame. No, washing a car could not be more important than saving the lives of three people. No, Baby did not have a heart that could break if she thought that her daddy didn't love her anymore. Dean yielded to this argumentation and agreed to drive a car that changed its color from black to brown thanks to the fine, russet dessert dust.

They arrived at the parking half an hour early, intending to use the time they had to find good positions and prepare traps. At least they thought they had time. There was one thing they hadn't foreseen. Apparently, the poludnitsa could show herself to seduce men only at noon. Following those who were already on her leash did not seem to have a time limit.

Dean was petrified. This time poludnitsa did not resemble a mixture of Dean's sexual fantasies with his... well...

A quick glance to Cas was enough for the hunter to make sure that the angel saw the same.

A skeleton floated among the golden fields; shreds of gray, dry flesh were still stuck to the yellowish bones. The whole figure was mantled by a translucent dress made of dirty gossamer; her head was crowned with a wreath of withered poppy, cornflowers and corn cockles. Braids made of faded straw cascaded onto her grayed collarbones and ribs, where they met a rattling necklace made of field-mouse skulls. This grim march was accompanied by a spinny buzz that picked up every second. Grain spikes quivered where she stood; the harsh rustle nearly drowned out the same sinister whisper Dean had heard earlier, when they met the poludnitsa for the first time. This time he was able to recognize single words.

_Woe is me!_

_Where are you, my beloved?_

_Is it you? Have you found me?_

"Guys, what's wrong?" Bobby darted at Dean and Cas, visibly agitated.

"What do you mean what's wrong?" Dean frowned "Wait, you can't see her, right?"

Singer was already reaching to his baseball cap, but Winchester violently grabbed his hand.

"Don't you dare!" he growled "What if we don't gank her today? You're waiting by the car. We can handle her, right, Cas?"

Castiel nodded halfheartedly. He seemed to be cogitative, focused on his own body, feeling it, readjusting to his vessel, as if he was trying to assess if he was strong enough to defeat whatever he was facing. Dean wondered if - since a Seraph was obviously frightened - he should be afraid too.

Finally, the angel moved his foot over the curb encompassing the parking lot. The moment his heel touched the dried, fissured ground covered in dried last year's spikes, gale picked up.

Lady Midday vanished in a flurry of dust, husks and gravel. Through this gray, turbulent curl Dean could see something large and dark, but before he could recognize the shape, the monster swept through the fields. Aided by the sharp wind she managed to haul the angel for a few hundred yards before the bank of swirling air was cut through with a silver glint. The dust set. Dean saw the woman and Castiel spring apart; the angel was reaching to her forehead to smite her...

...when Bobby's timer chimed, indicating that the Sun was at its zenith over that God forsaken parking.

Castiel dropped limply onto the ground; the poludnitsa dove into the sea of golden spikes and they both vanished from Dean's sight. The man broke into run.

Despite the distance he could hear the same vicious, melodious whisper inside his head. Now he understood every word.

"My beloved, you have found me. At last we can weave our fates together. I rejoice, for you will stay with me forever. You, who have no soul. No reaper will come tear you from my arms."

"If I stay, will you spare the others?" Dean recognized Castiel's voice, though it was distorted by a soft, dreamy hum,

"Yes!" the poludnitsa laughed huskily "I want no other. You are the one I love. But what is it that I see? Alas, you are married to another. Fear not, my love. My heart belongs to you. Soon, you will be free."

"Don't you dare touch him, you..." Castiel's growl was followed by a set of Enochian obscenities.

"Fear not, my love. I am here to liberate you..."

Dean was a few yards away from the place where the goddess and the angel fell down. She saw the woman straddle Cas's lap, lean down to bring her face close to his and card her gray, bony fingers through his hair. Suddenly, she jerked back and rose her head, listening intently. Dean stopped short when he met the piercing gaze of yellowish sparks smoldering in her empty eye sockets.

"Is it him? My beloved, I will fend him off. You will be free to offer me your hand. Nothing will ever tear us..."

Castiel gripped her neck and forced her to look at him, dragging her closer. Dean didn't have to tune in with the whisper in his head; he could really hear Castiel's voice, strangled with pain and effort:

"Leave him alone! I renounce him, do you hear me? I will stay with you. Marry me. I will..."

"Renounce my ass, you sonofabitch!" Dean roared, breaking into run again "Fuck off, you bitch! He's mine!"

The hunter sprung out at her; they tumbled on withered barley together. Despite her look, the woman was heavy and hard like a stone state. Her touch burned like red hot iron. Dean didn't even notice crimson streaks of scalds and lacerations on his arms. He fought like a rabid dog, trying to loop at least one coil of the fern rope around the woman. He was close to success when he felt incandescent fingers tighten around his neck. Blinding pain burst in his head; everything went dark. With the remnants of consciousness he felt an irresistible force drag him away from the monster and throw him back. The pain was gone. Dean rolled over and propped up on his elbows to see...

... he couldn't find words to describe the sight. Simmering with all the shades of silver, from blazing white to velvety black so dark that it seemed that the light didn't even touch it, enormous wings glistened in the sunlight. The hunter was awestruck. He could admire them for a moment, when stiff, arm-long flights vibrated, cutting through turbulent air. Then, Castiel folded the wings, wrapping them around himself and Lady Midday. From the shivering of mighty muscles Dean could tell that Castiel still fought a ferocious fight. Suddenly everything went still. The ground quaked, the air was ripped with a thunder. The angel flapped his wings once more, then he fell back.

The poludnitsa was gone. Winchester had no doubt. Low, steely clouds crept onto the sky. The temperature was dropping at an unnaturally rapid rate. Dean paid no attention - all he could focus on was a broad shape of wings, pressed into the even carpet of brittle barley. Heaving for breath and fighting the bitter knot forming in his throat, he crawled closer, praying with all his might that he wouldn't see outlines of feathers seared into the crumpled, flaxen blades.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean fell down to his knees next to Castiel, who was lying supine, unconscious and unnaturally pale.

"Hey, Cas," the man muttered uneasily. He was getting more and more anxious while checking for pulse and breath; a part of his mind yelled that it didn't make any sense.

Still, he had his heart in his mouth when he didn't feel any vital function.

"Cut it out, man", he yelped, patting Cas's cheek more urgently every second "Cas, you hear me? C'mon, don't do this to me. You can't just... Damn it!" he tugged at the angel's lapels; there was no reaction "Jesus, not now...You can't..." Dean's yell melted into a strangled whimper. He kept his fists clenched on Cas's trench so hard that his knuckles went white.

After an excruciatingly long while the angel coughed quietly, then let out a croaking murmur. Dean had an impression that it expressed chafe rather than suffering.

"Cas?"

"I... all right," Castiel whispered with strain "Need... a minute."

Winchester froze. After a moment, the fear and tenseness left him in one, deep, shaky sigh and relief broke upon him like a heavy, warm wave. The awareness of his own tiredness and pain was slowly reaching him; he fell onto the ground next to his friend, resting his head on Cas's shoulder.

"Of course you are all right," he twittered, racing with a strange, fidgety sensation welling up in his chest, "You're a friggin Seraph. I knew you'd be fine. You fought Michael. You screwed Raphael over. A fucking poludnitsa is no match for you. You're too awesome to..."

"Dean?"

The man budged when Castiel's fingers softly skimmed the side of his neck. The pain was gone. Burns healed, leaving only a slight prickling sensation.

"Huh?"

"Would you please, as you say," the angel furrowed his brows, searching for the proper word "shut the hell up?"

Meanwhile, it was getting darker. Heavy, lurid storm clouds covered every inch of the sky. Boisterous wind that swept through the fields was getting colder and more turbulent every second. Trying to keep his teeth from clattering, Dean flattened himself against Cas's side to seek the warmth of his body. The angel propped him self up. Dean found himself in an even darker shadow. He heard the first strike of gale carrying heavy, large raindrops, but he felt nothing. He looked up; in almost complete darkness he spotted Castiel's faint, but meaningful smirk. Soon he understood the reason behind it.

They were shielded from the furious storm by a pair of enormous wings.

xXx

"And then, I'm telling you, Cas totally owned that bitch!" Dean prattled, gesturing grandly with a half-empty beer bottle; a flush of excitement tinged his cheeks.

Sam was lounged in an armchair, facing his brother and Castiel, who occupied the coach next to a coffee table laden with junk food and munchies. Jody and Bobby stood aside, leaning towards one another, sipping whiskey and apparently exchanging comments about the whole situation, because Jody's bright laughter and Bobby's croaky chortle resounded in moments absolutely unjustified by Dean's story. It did not confound the hunter. He was content that his brother was listening intently.

"I though we were done for. She did look like a bunch of sticks, but damn, she was diesel. She started some spiel that we were to stay with her, then she had beef with Cas, then she had beef with me, then she had some kind of a shitfit, but you know what he did?" Dean grinned, looking at Sam expectantly.

"No, I don't know what he did," the man answered, smiling with tenderness. It was all Dean needed. He looked like he was about to explode.

"Stay with me. He... spread his wings. He fucking spread his wings! They were, like, I don't know, twenty feet..."

"Nineteen feet two inches," Castiel corrected, unamused. Sam snickered under his breath.

"Anyway they were so fucking huge and..."

Sam laughed out loud.

"What?" Dean cocked his head, suddenly disconcerted.

"Nothing," the younger Winchester explained, still giggling, "I'm just glad that you're satisfied with the size of your new hubby's appendages."

Dean lost his tongue. For a moment he was immobile, save for heaving deep, furious breaths. When he could move again, instead of beating some respect into his little brother's head he straightened up proudly, with his chest out and hooked one arm around Cas's shoulders in a possessive, yet protective gesture.

"Yeah, I am satisfied. Jealous, are we?"

Sam could not come up with a comeback. He was poleaxed. Before he managed to stop gaping and staring in disbelief, Castiel cleared his throat and turned to his friend.

"I have to go now. I have been informed that affairs in Heaven were not orderly while I was away. I don't think it is a critical situation, nonetheless my presence is indispensable."

The man saddened.

"Yeah, sure, if they need you then you have to go. But we're still settled for foos next Saturday, right?"

Castiel's lips budged in a soft, tender smile.

"Of course."

The next second he was gone.

Dean looked at his brother with a somewhat goofy smirk, pointing at the place where the Seraph had been sitting a moment earlier.

"See? He's busy. He has stuff to do. They need him upstairs."

Sam finally found his tongue. He let out an inarticulate sound, somewhere between a laugh and a puff of disbelief.

"Dean," he began cautiously "now I'm serious. What's up with you two?" having noticed Dean's frown he added "I thought this whole wedding-thing would hit you hard, but it looks like you're OK with it."

The older Winchester took a big swig of beer and sprawled more comfortably on the couch.

"You know what? I am. I'm cool with it. I figured I'd never have a normal marriage anyway, so I might as well end up hitched to an angel."

"Sounds fair," Sam nodded with a crooked smile "So far nothing is normal in our fucked up lives. It doesn't stand out."

"Yeah, Winchester style..." Dean agreed dreamily, but then jolted to full alertness, as if he remembered something of vital importance, "But I still get to chose the music. No more Jason Manns!"

Bobby must have whispered something into Jody's ear, because the woman's melodious laughter filled the air while they were both surreptitiously looking at Dean. The hunter remained unruffled.

"Laugh all you want," he muttered, staring ahead absentmindedly and fiddling with the empty beer bottle, "You wish you'd seen it. It was totally awesome..."

 

* * *

**That's it. Thank you all very much for reading, kudos and wonderful comments. Your opinions and support mean a lot to me!**

 

**P.S. I know that this isn't a full-on Destiel story. I didn't include a deathscare-confessinglove sequence here because I was planning a sequel. I've even written it and, to be honest, it kinda s*cks... so I don't know what I'll do about these two yet, though I certainly am a shipper and I want them to be together... and consummate their marriage, of course.**


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